


Not Her Dream

by HixyStix (GaiaMyles)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Asshole Fathers, Cunnilingus, Dubious use of commas and semicolons, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Porn with a hint of Plot, Underage Sex, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaiaMyles/pseuds/HixyStix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Secret Santa prompt: </p>
<p>Hannigail arranged marriage oneshot, wedding night.  I want her being super-nervous and him being an awesome gentlemen.  Super-romantic.  Undertones of manipulation (on his part!) are totally accepted and quite possibly encouraged.  Gimme gentle, nervous, first-time smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Her Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PinkToby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkToby/gifts).



Hands lift the veil from her face.  Large hands, long fingers.  Unfamiliar hands.  Before her face is completely uncovered, she shifts her gaze down. Black shoes, possibly leather. Ironed and creased tuxedo pants on long legs. Probably very expensive clothing; this man seems the type.

“Abigail.” A soft voice, strange accent. She looks up. There are no tears to blur her vision, though she feels it would be appropriate.

He looks older, worn, but she only has seventeen years to judge against.  An odd face, severe in cut, closed in expression.  Not his eyes, though.  This close, she can see the warmth in the brown.  He’s not all ice, then. Best not show that she can tell.

She knows what she’s supposed to do. Her father has coached her – in detail – on all that is expected of her this day.  She can’t stand on her toes in this dress, these shoes, so she lifts her face up.  It’s not enough with their height difference. This man – her husband, now – takes her chin in his hand and leans down to meet her, kissing her softly, gently.  She half expects him to prolong the kiss, to take what is now his, but he does not.

If there are tears in her lashes when he pulls away and they face the congregation, nobody says a word.

 

* * *

The reception is a long two hours.  Posing for photographs, receiving congratulations from her ( _protectorcaptor_ )husband’s associates. Faking a smile, knowing it doesn’t show in her pale cheeks or reddened eyes.  Makeup can only do so much.

Her father is one of the last to come to them.  She cannot read him, is not sure she wants to.  The father who swore to protect her against all others died the moment he offered her up.  She is his ( _babygirlprincess_ )payment for services rendered.  With luck, she will never know what the services were.  Dire enough that the only way for her father to repay this man is through virgin sacrifice.

Garret Jacob Hobbs does not look at his only daughter and she does not look at him.  She no longer belongs to him.  She is no longer a Hobbs.  The men shake hands and the transaction is complete.  Her father’s sins are wiped away and she is bound to a new life.

It will be a luxurious one, her mother told her.  She is lucky.  Her husband is known as a strong, cruel man, yes, but one who is fond of the finer things.  If she ( _placatesamuses_ )pleases him, she will be pampered beyond her wildest dreams.

Her dreams are nothing like this.

 

* * *

 

The car takes them not to a hotel, but to his ( _mansioncastleonahill_ )house.  The ride is silent, awkward. She is not up to conversation, anyhow. Every minute brings her closer to the physical reality of being married.

She turned seventeen only a week before.  She should not be married, she is still a child.  But her parents signed the wedding contract and she is now a ( _consortbondservant_ )wife. She has never fantasized about boys with friends – her father did not allow friends or boys – and her mind was filled with hastily whispered tidbits from her mother.  How to make things easier.  How to make him happy. How to find happiness in unhappiness.

She doesn’t want unhappiness.  She doesn’t want to be owned.  But now she is.

He holds a hand out to her.  She takes it cautiously, noting how small her hand is in his, how lightly he holds it as she steps out of the car. The lights of the city brighten the night sky, flickering as reflections in the large front windows.

Only a few steps up the sidewalk to the door, now unlocked and open.  He clears his throat softly and she looks up at him, wide eyed.

“Permit me,” he murmurs, and then she is swept up in his arms.  He smiles at her sudden gasp – the first true smile she had seen from him, open mouthed and toothy and reaching his eyes and if he smiled like that more, no one would fear him.  _She_ might not fear him. “This is traditional, and I am nothing if not a keen observer of tradition.”

He carries her ( _intothebreach_ )across the threshold, and the door closes behind them.

 

* * *

 

She allows herself a single concession to her own ease – once inside, she takes off her heels. He quietly picks up the discarded shoes and then disappears, presumably off to a closet somewhere.  She pads, swishing dress and hosed feet, through the downstairs of his – _no, their_ – house.

The kitchen – the whole of the house – is much more lavish than she pictured.  Sharp, clean lines, rich woods and metals and paints, broken only by an abundance of green plants she tentatively identifies as herbs.  Kitchen appliances she does not recognize, a built in freezer large enough to hide an entire person.

Her eyes jerk up as he comes around the corner.  He has lost his coat and gained two glasses of blood red wine, one held out to her.  She takes it tentatively.  What if she spills the wine on her white ( _sacrificialgown_ )dress, the clean slate of the floor?  She speaks for the first time, voice wavering.

“Is this… Is this alcohol?  I’m not old enough…”

A ghost of the smile she saw before.  “Yet you are old enough to be married off by your parents to a man you don’t know.  I think a glass of wine is permissible in these circumstances. If you would like it, of course.”

She shyly returns the smile now reaching his eyes.  Take the glass, taste the wine, be polite.  She’d had wine before – bitter, nasty sips stolen from her parent’s table.  This is not wine as she knows it. This is fruity and sweet with just a touch of alcoholic burn that trickles down into her belly.

His smile widens – more teeth – at her surprise.  “Dry wine is an acquired taste.  Why ruin any love for wine by forcing yourself past your comfort zone before you can appreciate the basics?” Glasses raised in toast, a high-pitched clink as they met halfway.  “Why, indeed, take that approach with anything? There are too many things to be savored along to the way to connoisseurship.”

( _DesireWarning_ )Subtext in everything he said.  Her eyelids flutter as she processes it.  Not ready to go there, deflection – an obvious look around the room. “I’ve never seen a kitchen quite this big.  I… I hope my father didn’t tell you that I’m a cook.  I burn everything but potatoes.”

Hands, fingers, on her neck, in her hair.  ( _CaressingCoaxing_ )Gentle touches, reassurances.  “Your father didn’t tell you about my culinary habits, then.  Do not worry; I cook for myself and I shall cook for you. Although I would be happy to try your potatoes, if you would make them for me.”

She relaxes into his touch.  Not so much expectation, one less opportunity to disappoint, relief.  He smiles again; a reward.  Behavioral conditioning, Pavlovian response. She knows this; she doesn’t care right now. Comfort is good.

“Abigail,” he murmurs, pulling her closer, setting glasses on the counter.  An attempt at a hug.  She keeps her arms in front of her and does not embrace him.  It does not stop him.  He is large enough to envelop her even if she does not cooperate.  He begins taking the pins from her hair, long and dark and straight ( _she could never get it to hold a curl_ ). “You are too beautiful to be this scared.  I do not wish to frighten you.  I know this is all new, but I hope that you will soon be comfortable in this house with me.”

Eyes closed, face pressed to his chest, breathing him in.  First man she’s smelled besides her ( _traitorousbackstabbing_ )father. Deep breaths.  Woods, ( _blooddangerchase_ )spice, heat.

She could cry. She could say no.  He would take her to a guest room and let her sleep.

But that is not why she is here.

 

* * *

 

His bedroom, now – no, _their_ bedroom, she must remember.  Just as opulent as the kitchen.  A king bed, she knows, but it seems larger.  Room for her to roll away in the night?

She stands before him.  He is at ease, this is his territory.  She is new, ( _virginal_ ) unsure. He moves with grace; it is his domain.

Watch, cufflinks off. Tie next, draped over a valet stand, then the vest.  Shoes and shirt and belt gone and he is halfway undressed and she is still standing there, trying not to panic.

Perhaps he senses the rise in her breathing or the rush of her pulse.  He turns to her, head cocked quizzically.  She is unsure of where to look – at the room, at his eyes ( _they look red in this light_ ), at his body. Chest hair, she didn’t think of that.  Had never thought of what he might look like under the clothes.  Had he thought of her – of course he had.  That was the point of this, wasn’t it?

Hands reaching for hers.  “My apologies, Abigail.  I thought I would take you to pick out a dressing station for yourself once you had moved in.  It was unforgivably rude of me to have nothing set up, however. Come here, let me help.”

She holds herself as if frozen.  If she moves, she will bolt from this room like a startled fawn.  It is what she feels like doing – no.  She feels like she should want to dart.  She isn’t entirely spooked, though.  Not as he turns her around, hands trailing over her shoulders.

Those same hands, long, artist’s fingers, unbuttoning her dress.  Small flutters of pressure from the nape of her neck to her lower back.  She cannot help but shiver – the sensation creating something between a tickle and a rolling of her stomach. Her core muscles clench, an effort to not react, and she’s not entirely sure why she doesn’t let herself.

Fully unbuttoned.  And now he will push the dress off her shoulders – but he doesn’t.  Instead, he steps back, watching her carefully. She turns. His face is schooled and implacable and his eyes never leave her own.

He will not force her to go further.  Deep, steeling breaths – and she shrugs the fabric off her shoulders, helping push the dress down past her slender waist and to the floor.

Now, he breaks from her eyes.  Now, there is a reaction.  His breathing deepens, some unknown emotion ( _lustwanthunger_ ) flickers across his face. A warmth in her chest, a flush to her face, to have caused a reaction.  Something tonight she has controlled.

“Abigail.” Her name, so often repeated, so exotic on his lips, as he is beginning to make her feel with his stare. “Come.”

Trembling – chill, not nerves, she tells herself – she reaches out to his hand.  It does not occur to her that this is the first she has reached for him. It does not occur to her that this is exactly his plan.

A large step, ungainly legs, and he seats her on the bed.  She is left in her jewelry – purchased by him, she knows, though her father tried to hide the fact – in specially purchased satin and lace – “ _You can’t wear cotton on your wedding night, dear_ ” – in hose.  Hose clipped to the lace; that is new to her.  Impractical, she thought, but her mother had insisted.  From the look on his face, Mother indeed knew best.

He pulls back from her, picks up her fallen dress.  Lovingly caresses the silk and tulle, lays it over his own valet stand, ensures that it will not wrinkle. She watches his face as he moves.  What had once seemed so severe, so uncanny, was beginning to soften to her eyes.  There was age to contrast against her youth, yes, but there was a beauty beginning to emerge. Perhaps even a kindness.

 

* * *

 

Back in front of her, pale skin, muscular and lean.  He bends and kisses her again.  She leans into his lips and he takes that as a cue to press harder against her mouth.  She tenses, worried that she is doing it wrong, that she should be less passive, that she is too eager, but then he – _oh_.

Fingers, dancing down her neck, arms, side. Brushes against her breasts, stomach. Tickles, but doesn’t. That tensing of her stomach again. She whimpers.

Motion ceases.  Pulling back.  Brown eyes full of warmth watch her.  Large hands envelop hers, pull them to his body. Kisses on her forehead.

She’s slender, but her body is soft. The only body she knows.  His torso is hard under her exploring fingers, a new experience. Hair on the chest, taut skin, swell of muscles, nothing like hers, the first strange body she’s allowed to touch. Her face must show her wonder; he smiles again.

Kisses on her neck, a snap as her bra is released, hands pushing her back on the bed, trailing down to her waist. “It’s a sad fact that for young ladies such as yourself, this is often not pleasant at first.” Fingers looped in the waistband of her lingerie, kisses on her stomach.  More clenching, sensations she didn’t know.  “I want you to know that it _can_ be quite pleasurable.  I’m going to show you a little bit of that.” Panties off, hose off, her arms over her head ( _what to do with them?_ ), large, long body leaning over her, laying her back onto the plush bed.  “I want you to keep this in mind the rest of the night. If I could, I would give you nothing but pleasure."

Should she speak?  Can she speak?  Kisses fluttering over her breasts, down her stomach, spreading her legs, fingers dancing close to parts of her that no one else has seen.  A sudden chill through her body – _am I normal? Should I have… shaved?  Will he_ -

“Abigail.  You are beautiful.” A mind-reader, then.  Warm breath on her inner thigh, oh.  Kisses following, moving closer, fingers inside her.  Her back arches involuntarily; she quickly tries to lay back down lest she disturb him.

She can feel his smile as he kisses her most intimate parts. His breath is warm and moist and then it is not his breath but his tongue, and that is new and is he supposed to do that and _oh. Oh. Oh!_ How can she keep silent if he’s going to keep on doing _that_?

She whimpers as his tongue finds a most wonderful spot - in the past she has tried touching herself there, but it never felt ( _warmwetelectric_ ) quite like this.

Her hands are running down her body and up his arms and into his hair, the stiffness of whatever hair product he used crumbling into softness at her touch. A moan escapes, hips buck: he is licking, sucking and then there is a finger inside her as he laps and she cannot imagine surviving this experience and her stomach clenches and-

He stops. Kisses, caresses continue, but it is not the same, no, not the same, why did he stop? Had she pulled his hair, did he not want her to make those noises - _she couldn't help those, she couldn't help wiggling, trying to maneuver herself closer to his face, he couldn't stop now she needed more she needed him_ \- she tries to still her body, her voices, able to quell all but the ragged ( _beggingpleadingneeding_ )breathing and tremors of her lower body.

"Am I," she manages before he cuts her off with a second finger inside her. Desperate whimpers.

"You are doing nothing wrong, my perfect, my lovely Abigail." Each word dances over her skin so lightly, teasing. Lips almost touching, even _his damn eyelashes_ close enough to feel fluttering against her.

Something must give. His fingers find a place inside her she didn't know existed, never knew and she is whimpering, squirming, begging, speaking a name that had never yet crossed her lips, "Ha-, Hann-" Fingers on that spot again and she wants to cry from the aching, throbbing emptiness where his _tonguemouthteeth_ were.

"Hannibal!"

He must have been waiting for that, waiting to her to beg, to cry his name. He starts in again with a force that is almost painful and _oh_ there is _oh_ liquid she feels is that _oh_ saliva, is that _her_? She would worry again, but not now not right now she cannot focus.

Pressure, warmth, building in the pit of her belly and she can't stand much more of this but she'll die if it ends and her fingers are curling in his hair again _cannot let him stop not now not ever building don't stop growing oh god spilling_! Tremors wracking her body and her thighs pulling together involuntarily, trapping his head, the sensations too much: he does not stop with tongue or fingers but he is slowing and it's just in time before she thinks she would scream.

Hands, one with slick fingers, loosening the death grip of her legs, and one last kiss on her inner thigh - _is that a grin? Can't be it's gone, how can he be so poised?_ \- and he pulls back, massaging down her legs as he goes. She is trembling, weak, heavy, or she would reach to pull him closer, to hold onto him as she tries to imagine walking again.

 

* * *

 

He is kneeling between legs still trembling with aftershocks and something has changed now that she looks at him. His pants are much tighter than before, bulging in the front - that must be an erection; she can only guess, though. She has never seen an aroused man, but she has read and she has been told what she should do now. _Quid pro quo_ , her father said.

She tries to sit up, abdominal muscles failing her halfway. He leans forward, strong arms wrapping under her shoulders to pull her the rest of the way, meeting her forehead with his own. He is peering into her eyes and she can smell herself - her arousal - on his face and she'd always been ashamed of that smell, under the sheets in darkened bedrooms but now... Now she was fairly certain she did not mind the smell at all.

Fingers - her fingers - tangling in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. First taste of herself on his lips, wet and _almostbutnotquite_ sweet. She untangles herself from his soft hair, running the tips of her fingers down his back to his pants waistband.  He breaks the kiss but pulls her closer, her heels hooking around his legs. Like this, she is taller, able to rest her nose against his forehead. She holds his gaze, but her attention is lower, trying now to unbuckle his pants.

He is watching her reactions, regular and paced breaths to her hitched uneven gulps of air, all high chiseled cheekbones, mouth pursed in thought. If she could not see his eyes, she would think his observation clinical. His eyes, though - the slight crinkle of skin around them - say that he is thoroughly enjoying her fumbling attempts at disrobing him. He makes no move to help her, instead kissing her face, her neck, her shoulders, cradling her back with the palms of his _oh so deft_ hands.

A rough tug at his waistband succeeds in releasing the trapped button and she is able to make quick work of his zipper and her hands look so small against the muscles in his abdomen but she yanks his pants down. She does not, can not, match his grace, his economy of motion; he does not seem to be disappointed.

She lets herself touch the bulge in his - _are those boxers? They fit so tightly against his skin_ \- underpants, wondering at what she felt. Firm, yet spongy, round and she instinctively wants to wrap her fingers around him. She runs a finger up to the dark hair on his stomach. A sharp intake of breath and his upper lip curls, baring teeth that hint at a predatory nature, vestigial fangs. An imperfection in a man so otherwise poised and carefully presented, a glimpse behind a mask.

Taking heart from his reaction, she tugs at his waist, his buttocks, encouraging him to stand. He complies, rising easily from his knees ( _aren't men his age supposed to have trouble with that?_ ), fluidly finishing his own disrobing, boxers and pants puddling on the floor.

And there is proof of his arousal, thick and darker than the rest of him and just a bit wet at the end, right in front of her and she has never seen anything like it - _how is that supposed to fit inside me? How can I manage_ \- and she is not sure what she expected this to look like. Tentatively, she reaches out for his waist. This was the part of her father's instruction she was the least sure of - but her father had not really mentioned the amazing thing he had done before, so perhaps this would be a surprise too - and she starts to learn forward, bringing her head down and-

"Abigail, no."

She stills at his voice and he takes her chin in his hand, tilting her face. Unsure of what to think, _isn't this what all men want_? He leans down, embracing her, speaking into the crook of her neck.

"As much as I would enjoy that, it is obvious you don't want to. I assured you that I would make this as easy as possible for you."

He is pushing her down and back on the bed and then he holds himself up over her waist, long looks sweeping her body and making her shiver - _chill? Nerves? No... Desire._

"Tonight, I want you to find your own pleasure, not mine."

And he lowers himself, a quick kiss to her nethers eliciting a sharp cry, and he is working his way back up her body, kisses and unintelligible murmurs electric against the sensitive skin of stomach and breasts and face. Whatever the language, she doesn't know, she doesn't care, and then she feels him pressing up against her entrance. A large hand reaching down, a quick finger inside her, opening her folds and guiding himself until he is barely inside her.

He stills again ( _supranatural control, this man_ ) and kisses her forehead. She whimpers, trying to squirm until he is fully inside her, even though she still cannot fathom how she will manage to take him in. "Abigail. If this hurts, I am sorry."

Then he kisses her mouth, hard and passionate and she feels as if her soul is being sucked out and - _Oh!_ He thrusts quickly inside her - _he fits, after all_ \- and there is pain, yes, but she is distracted by his mouth on hers and the new ( _completeness_ )fullness. She'd thought his fingers inside her had been filling but this is so much more and he has not moved again _that's not how it goes, he needs to move, she needs him to move_.

He moves. Slowly, deliberately, pulling out, easing in. She understands now why she gets wet when she is aroused; she is tight around him and there is a bit of friction that might be unpleasant later, she would be grateful for his earlier attentions, but she is too busy trying to quantify the new sensations. Every thrust, gentle and slow - too slow - accompanied by another kiss, another murmur of her name, another whispered blandishment.

His breath is hot against her skin, in her ear, hitching with each push inside her, and she turns to see his face against the sheets, finds watching him almost more fascinating than the feelings building inside her. There is an ethereal beauty to him, or does she only imagine that? His eyes are nearly closed, a slight sheen of sweat forming on his skin, musk and lust filling her nostrils and she wishes she could bottle that for later enjoyment and she is still sensitive from before, _tightening around him, stomach clenching, forgetting to breathe, warmth spreading through her middle_.

Whimpers. Her hands clutching at his chest, his shoulders, his back, frantic and needy, and he is accelerating, steadily, gently, emotions flashing across his face that she cannot identify, and she reaches to grasp at his hair, bring him back to her for a kiss and this is not as intense as before but still unimaginably satisfying, warmth filling her as surely as he does physically.  Words melt from her brain, insides spasm uncontrollably, and he moans into her mouth and she can feel him twitching inside her, spilling into her and will there ever be an end to the new feelings?

If they are all like this, she hopes not.

 

* * *

 

He collapses on top of her, welcome weight pressing her into the mattress, breathing heavily into the nape of her neck, blond hair falling in her face, their limbs heavy and languid, sated and entwined.

She had been told that her wedding night would be painful, unpleasant, and that with ( _careskill_ )luck, she would find a modicum of physical satisfaction in time. _Oh, but Mother was wrong. So very wrong._

He reaches up, brushes her hair back from her face. "Abigail..." His voice is deeper, husky, thick with that unidentifiable accent. "Thank you. I should apologize, I-"

"Hannibal," she interrupts. Rude, but perhaps he would forgive her trespass. She should be thanking _him_ but she cannot form the words, all she can manage is a smile. He laughs - at her, with her, the deep motion of his belly shaking the bed. Slowly, he moves, simultaneously pulling out and rolling off of her. She whimpers, hating to lose the warmth and contact, but he wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her close and she thinks she may never willingly leave this spot.

This was not her dream, not at all, but it might become something better.

 

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY HANNIDAYS, MOLLY! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. A+ prompt.
> 
> Thanks to GreyMichaela for coming along and giving me a proper beta for all my stuff!


End file.
